Speechless
by Veterization
Summary: Wincest oneshot. Teenchesters era. Sam has taken a liking to slipping into Dean's bed during the night. And even though Dean can't comprehend why, he finds it hard to complain.


_Disclaimer_: I do not own Supernatural.

When Dean stops to think about it, none of this is okay.

There's a very distinguishable line that is formed at a certain age milestone. It's the line that inevitably separates girls and boys in grade school and sprinkles a handful of cooties on both of them. It's the line that separates a toddler's overalls from big boy pants. It's the line that keeps a mother from getting in the same bathtub as her child. It's the line that prevents big brothers from cuddling with their little siblings.

Dean knows that him and Sam have already crossed this line, years ago, in fact, but for some reason, neither of them verbally acknowledge it. Sam is a bright kid, and he's certainly not slow on concepts by any means, but Dean can't help but wonder if Sam is aware of the amount of normality he's turning a blind eye to when he slips into Dean's bed every night.

Sam's shot up like a weed since he's turned thirteen, going from gangly limbs and awkwardly proportioned shoulders to a broad chest and firm arms overnight. He's now at a ripe age of fifteen, and quite frankly, Dean remembers his own teenage years when he had finally discovered he had overactive hormones. Always disobeying his father's rules to stay in the motel after dark, much too eager to stick his hand down a girl's shirt, spending ten minutes extra in the shower.

Sam's behavior is so completely polarized from Dean's, Dean is starting to wonder if Sam is going through a heavy phase of gender confusion right now, and is tempted to pull his pants down when he's sleeping just to do a brief mandatory gender check. He's never seen Sam so much as wink at a girl, let alone make an effort to wear more flattering clothing to school. Instead, Sam is slowly starting to develop a habit of falling asleep in his older brother's arms.

Dean knows that _something_ is going on. Sam's not six anymore and not having nightmares of fires and asking about mommy. He's chasing after puberty and not stopping to look over his shoulder, and he's asking Dean for support every night.

It started out as a one-night-only thing, where Sam had even clarified that he was aware of how effeminate he sounded when he asked, in a small voice, if Dean would keep him company because he wasn't feeling all too content that night. Dean had grumbled about it, but naturally agreed, because not only was that what big brothers were for, but also because Sam was pulling out a battle tactic that really _should_ be illegal and he was flashing his pathetic pout straight at Dean's eyes.

Sam had grown, but he was still small nonetheless compared to Dean, who was still outworking him in muscles thanks to the myriad more of hunts he had accompanied his father on. Dean was under the impression that, for sure, Sam would want to talk through the night, like a woman during a particularly lengthy session with her therapist. Yet instead of talking, Sam settled himself onto the bed, too small even for motel standards, his shoulder pressed against Dean's. Dean stared expectantly at him through the dark, hoping Sam would catch his waiting eyes after a few moments and finally let loose of all of his womanly feelings of teenage woe and be as brief as possible, partly because he was exhausted, and partly because he wasn't in the mood to sympathize Sam's issues that weren't really issues but rather high school drama.

However, Sam's eyes were glued to the ceiling, hands folded over his chest, jaw tightly set. Dean was getting a little impatient of Sam holding his tongue and avoiding the subject, the subject being something Dean wasn't even sure he was willing to talk about, and he mentally prayed that Sam wasn't internally ruminating over the acceptance of his manhood or his masturbation problems. And if he _was_ contemplating such a horrible thought Dean didn't ever want to imagine his baby brother thinking about, let alone executing, then Dean prayed that Sam would fall into a deep slumber before he could voice his concerns.

After a solid ten minutes of speechlessness, Dean had been under the impression that he had been set free of the agony of having to endure a cumbersome sex talk or beg for flirting tips with his gawky little brother, which he was. But Sam certainly wasn't asleep.

Through a soft rustle of the sheets, Dean had spied a few boy-shaped lumps moving in the bed before Sam's palm landed straight on the soft pad of Dean's stomach, on top of his nightshirt and hesitantly resting there, unmoving.

For a second, Dean instantly assumed Sam asleep, wondering if he had perhaps picked up a hormone-induced habit of molesting anything he slept next to, except that Dean had been bestowed with the luck of currently replacing the job that Sam normally let his pillow perform. Through a torrent of internal curse words of hoping that Sam's lips and legs weren't going to become part of the equation as well, Dean considered poking Sam awake. And then promptly brainstorming with the boy about potential girlfriends at his high school.

"Sammy?" he tried in the vain hope that Sam would respond to the whisper, and wriggled his legs a little. This was just strange. No one cuddled with their fifteen year old brother.

Now that Dean thought about it, the warm patch of Sam's hand on his torso wasn't exactly something that would constitute as downright snuggling, but it still managed to irk him, mostly because this was _his brother_ who had his fingers laying possessively on his tummy, not moving or twitching, but still there nonetheless. And Sam's hand was _elephantine_. Long fingers, broad palm - it signified just how much Sam was already racing through his youth at the sheer size of his hand, far from the pudgy, dainty appendage it was before.

Dean almost jumped out of his flesh when he heard Sam's whispered response, as though afraid that were his voice not soft enough, it would scare Dean away permanently, "Yeah?"

There wasn't any guilt to his voice, or shame that he had been touching his brother, and suddenly Dean felt mildly stupid for overreacting in his head so much for such a simple touch. But _still_, Dean couldn't help but find this quite unbrotherly. If this was a girl he had managed to lure into the Impala, he would already be under the impression that she was flashing the green light at him to go into her pants. And this wasn't some girl with a sizable chest and a long pair of legs, this was _Sam_.

"Dude," Dean mumbled, "your hand is on my stomach."

"I said," Sam clarified, but his voice had been soft, imploring, "I was upset."

"I thought you wanted to talk."

"Shh."

And for once, Sam was rejecting Dean's almost-offer to gush about his poor, poor life, instead ordering Dean to hold his lips and be silent. Dean instantly began wondering if Sam was planning on staying like this all night. Sam had brushed off the topic like he was just four-years-old again and seeking comfort in the cocoon of his big brother's arms, not a teenager climbing into bed with his sibling and starting to get touchy. Dean moved his mouth to speak again, and promptly closed it, his muscles tensing from refraining from prying Sam's hands off of him.

Really, it wasn't an intruding touch, not thumbs working away at the button of his pants or lips flitting over his jaw, but Dean still couldn't shake his feeling of _wrong wrong wrong_. He wondered, idly, what John would think were he here to watch them, and swallowed.

O O O O O

Dean is under the innocent impression that the incident from the past isn't going to turn into a recurring, nightly event. He refuses to believe that Sam is using him as an outlet for his hormones with a few half-hearted snuggles, and instead likes to think that perhaps the boy was confused, much too tired, over worked with homework, half asleep, or maybe even all of the above options.

"Hey."

However, Dean is starting to have doubts.

He's sprawled over his mattress like his corpse has found its dying spot and he's a blink away from much needed sleep when he feels a soft prod in between his shoulder blade. Dean hears a voice muttering through the darkness, and then again, repeating itself, and instantly identifies it, knowing that John's is deeper and gruffer. It's Sam's voice, and not only that, but it's Sam's I-need-something-please tone with an edge of pleading to it, and at this time of night, that can't be a good thing.

Dean rolls over so he's facing Sam's blurry outline through the shadows. He blinks a few times, and prays that Sam only needs assistance being escorted into the bathroom. Anything but another round of _comfort_.

"Sam," Dean says, and puts on his big-brother voice, "go to bed."

Sam wavers in his spot, but doesn't return to his bed. Dean frowns.

"...Sam?"

"I had a nightmare."

"Sure you did, princess." Dean feels himself scooting protectively over all corners of the bed so Sam doesn't find a hole to worm his way under the sheets with. He likes having the bed to himself, and he likes all-limbs teenage boys to be removed from it.

"Please, Dean? Just for one night?"

Dean can't even see Sam's half-lidded eyes, worn with sleep and the curve of nighttime despondence, but he hears it in his voice, and through a heavy exhale, he shifts on the bed and holds open the sheets.

Sam ambles in and Dean's glad when he feels the bed weigh down next to him, Sam's head on the pillows and his arms on his side, where it's still safe territory, where Dean doesn't feel like he's going to wake up with his pants on the floor and Sam's mouth on his neck. Quietly, Dean waits for Sam's breathing to become gentle and even to signal his slumber, but it never comes. As a matter of fact, Dean can't hear Sam's breath at all, almost as if he's holding it in and biting his tongue off in the process.

"Do you want to... talk about it?" Dean can't believe he's even bringing this up. He knows it's going to be something ridiculous. Something very Sam-like, like his brother getting trapped in a mass of wobbling jam and never being able to swim himself through, or Sam dreaming he was forced cruelly into a lacy corset and his hair braided in a castle's tower in the middle of suburban Tokyo as he was told to wait for his brave samurai to come rescue him with a handful of Asian gigolos. Dean prepares himself for something he can't even imagine, and instead Sam inhales slowly and turns to face him.

"Tomorrow, okay? Can we just sleep now?"

Dean has never before in his fifteen-year-period of babysitting over Sam seen his brother being quite so reasonable. Still, he's not about to jinx his lucky ticket out of an interminable conversation. He settles his neck back onto the pillow, about ready to sleep once more when Sam's hand slips over his stomach, this time curling gently around his waist and even mustering up enough courage to scoot closer, cheek pressing against Dean's arm.

Dean should have known he wasn't going to be let off easily when Sam declined a heartfelt pillow talk. Again.

"...scared of the bed bugs, Sammy?" Dean mutters, but it's not spiteful. And his tone is even far from joking, too, it's much too quiet and curious. Sam's far from confident about the way he's curling himself around Dean, his palm barely brushing against his waist. He feels Sam's fingertips twitch against his skin through his shirt, and Dean detects his brother's first dose of shame at his unorthodox method of seeking mollification out of his older brother, and as a reflex, Dean's arm drapes over Sam's body to guide him closer than he was before.

He's not quite sure why he does it, especially when he's sure he's supposed to be pushing Sam out of his bed and telling him to watch his personal space and learn some family manners, because after all, this _is_ crossing a line. And now, Dean thinks dryly, he's encouraged it, and it's too late to shove at Sam's chest.

"Feeling okay, little brother?" Dean asks, just because he feels the need to follow his rather suggestive action with some sort of explanation. He just wants to make Sam feel better, go to sleep in peace, and preferably not mention any of this come morning, but he knows that he shouldn't have pulled him closer if he wanted this incident to be easily forgettable. His hand is still lightly adhered to the small of Sam's back, not pulling or grabbing, just resting. It makes him feel like he's a newlywed tucking his fresh bride into his arms after a few hours of lovemaking.

Dean grimaces. Since when does he think in vocabulary such as _lovemaking_?

Their knees, bent slightly, brush. Dean jerks back and instantly straightens his legs, as though even though they're already fairly close, that touch would have been illegal. In all terms of family etiquette and, dare he think it, incest, this is quite tame, harmless even. They're just two brothers in a meek, if-it-may-be-called-so hug under the covers of a bed.

Dean stops and thinks about that for a few seconds. If anything, it gets weirder.

He's starting to wonder if any of this is even going to be real come morning. His arm thrown over Sam's, Sam's hand furled over his hipbone, both of their thumbs gently rubbing without them being aware of it, almost like the foreplay to a pornography for the sweet-hearted.

"Yeah." Sam replies, softly, and Dean gets a whiff of fresh toothpaste as Sam whispers.

He tries not to think about how weird that felt before he falls asleep lest his dreams suffer from his lingering thoughts and turn into nightmares of Sam growing a few more arms and starting to molest Dean's helpless body with every one of his octopus limbs.

Instead, as he falls into a hesitant slumber with the sound of Sam's soft breathing lulling him into his tranquil state, he wonders if Sam even had a nightmare to begin with.

O O O O O

Dean isn't capable of sleep.

He doesn't know if it's his father's unplanned three days extra absence or the fact that he indulged in too much caffeine before bedtime, but he can't bring himself to successfully sleep. His eyelids are refusing to droop, and the unidentifiable stains on the ceiling are much too interesting for him to fall asleep now. He blinks. The stains morph a little. He's starting to feel the earth rotate under his bed, which would normally be an indicator for him to hit his pillow and dream a little, but he finds that when he tries, he can't.

He twitches when he hears the familiar sound of soft footsteps, and for a second he believes it to be John and almost goes to the door to check, but then there's suddenly a body sliding into Dean's bed beside him, and Dean realizes that it's definitely not dad.

"Sam," he mutters, and Sam jumps at hearing Dean's unexpected voice, "thought I was asleep?"

He manages a, "Yeah, sorry," and is almost halfway out of bed again when Dean grabs his wrist and pulls him back down.

"Hey," he says, and squeezes his wrist, "what's wrong?"

He expects a half-hearted, unintelligible mumble. He expects an elaborate excuse of a series of bad dreams haunting Sam throughout the night. He expects a shrug and another attempt to dislodge his wrist from Dean's grasp so he can wriggle back to bed with red cheeks. He expects a myriad of other equally translucent excuses. Instead, Sam remains silent for a second before he scoots under the covers and whispers, unsurely at best:

"Can you hold me?"

Dean blinks. And blinks again. He feels the start of a bark of incredulous laughter at the cusp of his throat, begging to be released followed by a handful of good-natured teasings concerning his brother's femininity, but he can feel Sam's wait for a reply and hope for a non-rejection linger in the air like an unstable teenager's confidence might. It takes Dean a moment to remember that Sam _is_ an unstable teenager, and another to remember that he should probably answer Sam's request before Sam slinks back to his bed like the dejected puppy Dean knows he is.

"You're," Dean tries to think of a comment sensitive enough for three in the morning, and comes up short, "c'mere."

Sam eases himself onto the bed like it's made of porcelain and approaches Dean likes he's a sandcastle. For a second, Dean almost wants to let Sam's insecurities keep him from snuggling into Dean, but it's when he takes too long Dean realizes that he _wants_ him pressed into his side, and sighs.

"Sammy," he whispers, like he's coaxing a frightened cat into his fingers, and folds one of his arms out over the pillow in a wordless invitation. It crosses his mind briefly again that he _really shouldn't be encouraging this_ and his increasingly twisted relationship with his brother.

He expects their bones to knock together like an awkwardly fitted puzzle, but Sam's lithe enough to fit into the grooves of his torso and fold into his arm like origami. A tuft of his hair tickles Dean's cheek and he smirks, nudging Sam's head up with his chin.

"Tickling me, Sam, get your bird nest outta my face."

Sam scoots up. Dean wishes a second later he hadn't.

He knows that Sam's intentions are pure, and he certainly isn't expecting Sam to start making moves, because not only would that be _wrong_, but it's not very Sam Winchester-like either. Dean knows perfectly well that inhibitions are lowered in the dark and lips are easy to accidentally bump against, and he can't believe his mind is even curving into the direction it is, but he also knows that Sam is cautious. The few times Sam has accompanied John and Dean on a low-key hunt in the area, Dean got a generous whiff at how Sam fights. He's small and plucky, but he holds knives like they're tampons and can't grasp the concept of moving his broad body by creeping instead of lumbering.

Dean feels Sam's hand curl familiarly at his hip and their feet bump. Their arms brush as Dean wraps his own hand over Sam and exhales a warm breath from his lips. It's dark, dark enough that not even the moonlight is penetrating through the blinds, and Dean is a little frightened to realize that he's lost sight of the figure that is Sam. He can make out a vague shadow, blurred by the heavy covers, that indicates Sam's body, but no matter how much he squints he can't label Sam's facial features.

Then Sam's nose bumps against his own, and Dean licks his lips. He wonders, mentally, how easy it would be to push their lips together right now. Soft, mouths barely meeting, just a fleeting touch of wet lips in the dark. He swallows it down the moment the thought surfaces. Dean feels sick to his stomach, and his heartbeat triples. He wonders, off-handedly, if Sam can hear it from his proximity, and wonders exactly what kind of schoolgirl, lovestruck message he's sending to a brother, and realizes it's probably not any worse than the messages he's already sent.

By this point, he _really_ wishes Sam would say something, anything to keep the conversation afloat and to keep them away from each other's mouths. Dean doesn't know if Sam even knows what he's doing, let alone what he's _suggesting_ with the propinquity between the two of them that's slowly dwindling down into nothing but a line, the same line that keeps Dean from washing Sam's hair in the bathtub or hugging him for longer than eleven seconds, the line that separates brother from friend from better friend from lover.

After a few moments of dead, yet intense silence, Dean prays that perhaps Sam's bladder will spontaneously overact, causing his brother to dart out of Dean's arms and into the bathroom for a form of relief that's better and nicer than lying in his brother's arms for something that Dean can't quite label as one hundred percent comfort anymore.

Sam doesn't move. Doesn't even twitch, as though he's refraining from breaking the moment they've managed to create simply with their brushing hands and touching arms.

And god, they are _so close_. Dean's starting to think he won't ever be able to sleep like this, not with Sam practically sharing his breath. And as if Sam's realizing his discomfort of the situation, he turns to face the ceiling, nose bumping against Dean's once more, hand falling off of Dean's waist. Dean blinks at the sudden removal of Sam's limbs draped over his, and almost wants to ask why Sam's rearranged himself, as though Dean's a bad pillow to snuggle up against, and he gulps the words back down.

They wake up on opposite sides of the bed and mention nothing of the night before.

Dean almost wishes they had.

O O O O O

They've changed motels. The beds have gotten smaller. Sam no longer wears a nightshirt. He thinks nothing of it.

Dean is starting to think about Sam's nighttime visits more than he's ever thought about his homework, let alone anything else he's been asked to contemplate over. Sam's a complex boy - he has inner turmoil and all sorts of concerns that Dean will never be able to wrap his head around, but no matter what angle he attempts to tackle the subject from, he can't come up with a logical answer as to why Sam would go to such blatantly aberrant lengths to reach his intent. And now that Dean's really settled himself into a mode of reason, he's considering what Sam's motive in the first place even is.

He realizes that Dean Winchester is over thinking things when his doubts are starting to have doubts and not a single conclusive result forms in his head after two hours of fruitless ruminating. He doesn't _analyze_ situations. He's not a woman, and he certainly doesn't possess enough intelligence to come up with logical observations. His brain stops, and Dean tries to simplify the issue instead.

Really, it's not a big deal. Sam is just turning into a touchy boy. Some boys kiss their mothers even as they graduate college. Maybe Sam's picked up a few less than masculine traits over the years and likes snuggling. Maybe he just is going through a strange phase of puberty.

Dean makes a mental note to ask John about that. A second later, he promptly stomps that idea into the ground. John being involved in the spooning debacle would be everything but helpful, and John's no psychiatrist in the first place.

By the time that Dean's crawling into his bed and flicking off the lamp, he's come to the solid conclusion that Sam is just a strange boy who will laugh about these strange occurrences come a few years when he's old enough to see the incestuous implications he's proposing when he sleeps with his body curled around Dean's like an amoeba trying to digest its lunch. It's not like Dean _minds_ that much, anyway.

Sam, too, is in his bed. But he's not moving.

Dean frowns at him, and turns the light on again, "Aren't you coming?" He asks, and the question surprises even Dean. He wants to hastily turn the light back off and be swallowed by the sheets, because there's no way that _he_ just suggested Sam join him voluntarily. He's practically already falling out of his bed as it is. He doesn't need a fifteen-year-old boy on top of him too.

Sam turns over and glances at his brother, "I," he pauses, and glances at Dean again. Dean remains purposefully wordless, hoping the situation will lose a bit of its impact if he doesn't add to it by talking, "yeah."

That night, Sam stays on his side of the bed, and is practically halfway draped onto the floor because of it. Dean checks his body odor in the morning, and he even checks his breath. Once again, he finds himself being helplessly confused.

O O O O O

"Dean, what are you doing?"

"Move."

Sam is far from pleased at being woken up Dean at such a ghastly hour of the morning, the clock blinking a bleary 2:11 at him, but he still obeys as Dean nudges his elbow, scooting over to the other side of the bed and staring expectantly up at his brother.

Dean isn't in the mood for questions and answers, wordlessly slipping in beside a Sam whose face has turned into a giant question mark, but he ignores his inquiring eyes nonetheless. He pulls the covers over them both and sets his jaw, not intent on explaining. Sam, naturally, isn't happy with this response, or lack thereof. But Dean has endured countless nights of Sam crawling into his bed and shushing him once he starts asking too many questions, and so can Sam.

Dean turns to his side, and his hand finds Sam's. He curls his palm around Sam's fingers, lightly, barely touching, more so a half-hearted brush of their fingertips rather than a greedy grab for his hand. His thumb slides over the soft skin on the base of Sam's palm, and Sam feels it, gripping back just as tenderly. It's a girl moment, a moment Dean can't even believe he initiated, and he's going to make Sam swear to never mention this fleeting hand-holding incident ever again if his brother's already thinking of ways to contort this into blackmail, but then again, this isn't that kind of moment. Dean squeezes his hand a little, and feels okay doing it.

"Nervous or something?" Dean mumbles in the direction where he assumes Sam's face is, "Why don't you ever come over anymore?"

There's a few quiet, indecisive shifts in the covers as Sam rearranges himself. He feels a forehead, a hot forehead, rest against his. Dean can hear Sam swallow, and wonders just how close his brother really is.

"I didn't know if you wanted me there."

Dean remains silent, vaguely unsure what to say in response, let alone what he's expected to say. Brotherly reassurance has already been mildly blown out of proportion thanks to the rather atypical liaison they've let develop between them.

Instead, his mind is bombarded by freakishly familiar thoughts, like how easy it would be to lean in the barest of a few centimeters and connect their lips. He wonders, would it be dry, would it be soft? His own mouth is rapidly drying up, like his saliva glands have malfunctioned and starting producing grains of sand onto his tongue. He wants to lick his lips, but he's scared to hit Sam's.

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Sam says nothing, and Dean knows he's analyzing Dean's motives, as though the only reason he's here is out of a big brother obligation.

"Do you want to be here?"

Sam's offering so many doors out - even bothering to throw open a few possible escape route windows - it's almost as if he wants Dean to say no. Dean smells insecurity, a great amount of teenage, Sam-like shyness, and he carefully picks around the words waiting to be filtered through his mind to meet Sam's expectations. Dean swallows them all back down and blinks, vaguely making out the round structure of a nose a mere inch away.

"You know I do."

Slowly, he lets go of Sam's hand, his fingers ghosting up his side. Sam's taken a liking to sleeping shirtless permanently even though it's the middle of February, but Dean doesn't mind, because his brothers' waist is smooth, his chest is smooth, even his shoulders are soft and glabrous. His fingertips are barely exploring, barely brushing, but he still feels Sam's flesh beneath his touch as he slides over his shoulder, a soft tremor shaking his brother's body by the time he gets to his neck. He pushes back the stray strands of hair by his jaw and folds them back behind his ear.

"...Dean." Sam manages, his voice barely penetrating the darkness. Dean nudges him a little with his forehead, palming the nape of his neck. Soft, bristles of baby hair brush against his thumb. He hears Sam sigh, feels his head move in his hands, smells the mint of his toothpaste as his breath hits his lower lip. He waits for Sam to push him off, roll away, even just politely decline what Dean's roaming fingers alone are suggesting, but he doesn't. If anything, Sam's been paralyzed in shock.

"...you okay?" Dean feels the need to ask, and is surprised to hear that his own voice is shaking slightly. He feels Sam nod, and suddenly, everything becomes a whole lot more serious, a whole lot more _real_. He's staring at what have to be Sam's eyes when he's leaning in, already thinking of never ending excuses for the moment his logic that's currently spinning out of control kicks in, and his mouth covers Sam's as if he's trying to steal away his breath.

Both their lips are parted, both of their mouths are curious, and their tongues are at bay. It's a reassuring kiss, packed with _is this okay?_s and _please want this too_s. Dean presses harder when Sam doesn't, and is rewarded with a small noise from Sam's throat, appreciative and quiet.

To be honest, Dean doesn't know what he's doing. He can't help but think that kissing his brother simply _has_ to have different rules and regulations than kissing the attractive cheerleader in tights, but then Dean tries a tactic all too familiar to him and gently licks his way up onto Sam's upper lip and Sam shudders under his hands, his nose grinding against Dean's, and Dean is suddenly all too encouraged that he's doing something right, especially when he's aware that Sam's not all too sure in his movements either.

They're just two boys with their hands finding each other under the covers, their lips speaking for the words they aren't sure they can verbalize properly, and for a second, Dean doesn't feel like Sam's his brother. It's not a twisted family thing, it's not a product of John-screwed-up, it's not a surprise case of incest that came out of uncontrolled hormones. Dean's hand finds Sam's again and lays it on his hip, covering it, rubbing gently, and pulls his lips back. He keeps Sam's hand on his hip firmly.

It's dark, but they look where they know each other's eyes are. He still feels the fleeting feeling of Sam's lips on his, melding, fusing, touching through tremors. There's the unmistakable aura of unspoken _sorry_s waiting to be whispered, and Dean tries to blow it away, but Sam gets to it first.

"Why'd you stop?"

It's quiet and apprehensive, but it's bold enough. Dean doesn't need a welcome mat, and Sam certainly doesn't have enough fortitude in the matter to initiate their tentative touches either, so Dean assumes the dominant role and blindly presses their lips together again.

Their knees knock and their bodies touch, explorations waiting to be confirmed, waiting to be okayed, and both of them are ready.

This is okay.

_You left me speechless._


End file.
